


Miss Jackson

by herprettysleeper



Category: Bandom, Halsey (Musician), Panic! at the Disco
Genre: F/M, I cannot be the only one who ships this ship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-10
Updated: 2016-09-10
Packaged: 2018-08-14 06:51:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8002549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herprettysleeper/pseuds/herprettysleeper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brendon and Halsey meet in a bar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Miss Jackson

**Author's Note:**

> This is a cheesy romantic one-shot featuring shy Brendon and a confident Halsey. Enjoy.

Brendon didn’t think it would ever happen.

His friends told him that he underestimated himself, but he knew it was a lie. They just didn’t want him to be upset.

They should know by now that it took a lot more to make him upset than not being wanted by anyone.

He was awkward and weird, and, well, he was  _him._ And he wasn’t exactly a chick magnet.

So when he was at the bar, abandoned by the friends who had forced him to come here, he did not expect the girl to appear.

She waved at a friend and came to stay next to him. She didn’t seem to be there  _because_ of him, more like she wanted to be away from the crowd and this just happened to be the only free space. Except it wasn’t.

Brendon pretended that this didn’t make him nervous. He tapped his feet, drummed his fingers against the counter and spared a quick glance to his right. She managed to make a cream-colored cowboy hat look classy. His eye caught on some lettering on her right forearm, but his vision was too shitty for him to make it out.

He hated not knowing things almost as much as he hated himself.

She ran a hand through her long blue hair and he quickly looked at her arm, now that it was closer.

_These violent delights have violent ends_

“ _And in their triumph die, like fire and powder,_ ” he whispered.

“ _Which, as they kiss, consume._ ” She said the lines with him. Her voice was soft amber, somewhat like the rest of her—enticing, with a darkness underneath. She gave him a small, sultry smile. “Hey.”

He blushed and looked back down at his cup. “Hi.”

“Are you from around here?” She rested her head on her hand.

“Uh, yeah.” Vegas was his city. Born and raised. Next to her, it sounded so insignificant.

“What do you do?”

He bit his lip. “I’m in a band.” He wasn’t going to tell her that technically, he worked at the Tropical Smoothie Café.

Her eyes widened like she was actually interested. “Really? What’s it called?”

“We’re Panic! at the Disco.”

“I’ll look you up.” She smiled again, and this time, he swore that it could’ve lit up the world.

They talked about music, and then about favorite places in the world and about their dreams. It was strange, how open it was. How he felt like he could tell her anything.

Maybe that was because he would never see her again.

The thought upset him and circled around the back of his mind as he talked. And when she reached out and her finger gently wiped something off his jaw, then traced down his neck, he had the words in the back of his mind.

_Is there somewhere you could meet me?_

He didn’t say them, though, and then she got up, and he regretted it. She started to walk away, and he regretted it more.

Then she looked over her shoulder and beckoned him.

The weight left his stomach, and he followed her.

~*~

Ashley traced a circle on his chest.

She felt it rise under her fingertip. His mop of black hair was messy, strands sticking to his forehead.

God, he was adorable.

She wanted to stay, but she’d been here longer than she should’ve. She wanted to be gone before he woke up. She liked that. Being a phantom. A ghost, even.

She stood up, careful not to disturb the bed too much. She slipped into her jean shorts, threw on the oversized flannel shirt she’d had on earlier.

He stirred, and her heart sped.

He wasn’t awake. She sighed, her hand to her chest, feeling it slow down. She stood in front of the mirror, raked her hands through her pastel blue hair, and plaited it down her back. She reached for the hat sitting on the dresser, and her fingers had just brushed it when she heard him.

“Wait!”

The voice was thick with sleep, and she didn’t move, her fingers still reaching for the hat.

“Yes?”

“Don’t…” he wiped at his eyes and sat up. “Will you stay?”

It was so desperate it broke her heart.

She shoved her hands into her pockets, and said softly, “I’ll come to a show.” She didn’t look directly at him.

He slumped back onto the bed. “I don’t…” he blushed. “We don’t even know each other’s names.”

She glanced around the room, and she saw a frame on the wall. A diploma. “You’re Brendon Urie, I’m guessing.”

He looked down. It was like he could never  _not_ blush. “Yeah, but…you.”

She smiled, her hand on the doorknob now and the door cracked open. She looked over her shoulder, the hat forgotten on the dresser. “Just call me Miss Jackson.”


End file.
